Cannot Forget
by Mimizuku9
Summary: Russia and China reminisce about their time together throughout and beyond the Cold War. Written for RoChu Week 2017.
1. April 21st 1961: Sino-Soviet

**A/N: Due to the inexplicably messy way I decided to write this, the prompts will depict events out of chronological order. Feel free to read them either in posting order or chronological order, or really, in any which order you like. Each chapter can stand on its own or fit together with the others as part of a larger story line.**

 **Whichever way you decide to read this, I hope you enjoy it :)**

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 _Beijing, April 21_ _st_ _1961_

Russia's drawn out sigh was like listening to a withering beast's dying breath – it spoke of a pitiful tiredness China had never seen in him before. A large, solid built chest rising and falling softly like it was made from something other than cold steel, the hand loosening its grip on the vodka bottle as if it had never had to choke the life out of someone.

China circled around the bed, keeping to himself the curt comment on Russia's muddied boots, watching his eyelids flutter closed in their drowsiness. The sight was endearing, in a way China had not felt for a long time for Russia, but the circumstances couldn't allow for soft sentiments like this.

'You shouldn't be here,' China said, clenching his jaw in hopes of hardening his tone.

A tiny smile tugged at Russia's lips, eyes still shut. 'I know.' He drew the near-empty vodka bottle closer. 'But you let me in, so it's okay…'

'It's not,' China said, eyeing the open curtains. Would anyone really know or care, if they saw Russia's towering shadow in his room? 'You're drunk, aru. I didn't want to leave you alone out there like that. But as soon as you are well enough to walk, you're going back to Moscow.'

' _Nyet_. I will stay…' Russia fumbled with the cap of the bottle, unscrewing it with clumsy fingers.

China snatched the bottle away. 'You're going.'

Russia opened his eyes, brows furrowing like China was not making any sense. He propped himself up by the elbows, eyes flickering and growing deep in their depths – this was the face of a man ( _a child)_ who had grown used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. China had spoiled him long enough, and in those eyes he could see the influence – cruelties – of past leaders in them; and it only tore open a strange melancholy in his heart.

'Our nations could be at war soon,' China said, setting the bottle down. 'This is no place for you to be.'

'Our nations are allies.'

China raised a brow. 'Is that why we quarrel at every turn?'

Russia stayed quiet for a moment, his gaze darting elsewhere. 'You say it like it's about us.'

'Well – it is.'

'I mean _us_ us,' Russia said, hesitating. 'As people. Without flags attached to our names.' He sat up on the bed, the drizzle of rain still matting his hair slightly, and the ghost of a sweet, tiny smile on his lips as he looked up to China. 'Yao is the one who loves me most.'

'Don't put words in my mouth.'

'But it's true, _da_?'

'I've never said anything like that.'

Russia shrugged, chuckling in amusement though his shoulders fell with a disappointment China momentarily hated him for. China sighed.

'I'll call you a taxi. You seem fine enough now, since you're making coherent jokes like that. I'm sure there will be a flight back to Moscow within the next few hours –'

'I'm not staying the night?'

'Why would you be staying the night?'

Russia blinked, parting his lips as if to conjure up some excuse. Everything about him in that moment was tender, as if that terrified little boy had never grown up to begin with, as if scars and pains had unravelled themselves away without a trace. With an expression like that, China could almost pretend they had not been talking through double-meanings and cloaked words for the past decade. He could almost pretend, that he had never gotten close enough for it to sting when their nations refused to fully get along.

'Perhaps… Yao will pity me enough,' Russia chuckled, his voice in sweet and honeyed tones. 'Who knows… I might not see you for another ten years.'

'Ten years are nothing,' China said – still, somehow, trying his hardest to be curt. He pursed his lips, not quite sure he bought his own lie. Ten years of war, of prosperity, of mundane days to go by – they were nothing. Ten years without Russia, he wasn't quite so sure.

He approached the foot of the bed, where Russia's muddied boots were hanging off the edge. He pulled a boot off, gently setting it to the floor before catching Russia's gaze.

'Your boots will dirty the bed.'

Russia's eyes brightened, his socked foot almost wagging like a dog's tail. 'Does this mean I'm staying?'

'It means…' China hesitated. He pulled the other boot off and sighed. 'Yes. Fine. It means you're staying. But for tonight only. You'll leave –'

'First thing in the morning,' Russia finished, his smile bearing a hint of mischief. 'We _have_ done this many times before.'

' _Aiyah_ …' China closed the curtains, feeling heat flare out on his face at the mention of those distant memories. 'I wouldn't set your expectations too high.'

Russia hummed in mock agreement, already stripping his scarf and jacket and strewing them lazily across the room. China stopped him when he began to clumsily undo his shirt buttons, Russia's pale face turning pink with a flustered laugh.

'Too forward?'

'A little,' China said, permitting himself this one touch as he placed his hand on Russia's forehead, brushing feather-soft hair away from his face. 'You should rest.'

'Only if Yao rests with me…'

China begrudgingly agreed, goading Russia into lying down on the bed and shutting his eyes. He curled up in the space beside Russia, watching his eyelids fall helplessly into sleep, the withering beast's breaths slowing and deepening as if it was taking one of its last few rests.

'Yao…' Russia murmured.

'Yes?'

'I'm sorry… I wasn't a good comrade.' Russia's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh, his eyes still shut as if he was afraid to look China in the eyes as he spoke. 'I did a lot of things that comrades shouldn't do. I did all the things you told me not to. Remember? The toes and the debts…? Something like that…'

China swallowed, wanting to reach out and hold his hand, and all the while hating himself for it. He watched Russia's brows pinch slightly as he spoke those words, murmuring his sugar-laced apologies. China believed him, he believed that Russia could never truly _want_ to hurt… but mistakes like this simply couldn't be erased.

Russia placed his hand on China's shoulder, warmth seeping through the shirt fabric, into mended skin where scar tissue had left its mark. 'You'll forgive me… won't you?'

China's breath shook slightly, taking hold of Russia's hand and prying it off his shoulder. 'Of course,' he said, once again eating his own lies. 'One day… when enough time passes.'

The night had willed itself away, somehow, though the hours passed like days, listening to Russia's deepened breaths and China's own uncertain heartbeat. But it was only when the sun had begun to rise and peek through mottled curtains that China felt brave enough to draw that hand closer, and press his lips to it.


	2. February 14th 1950: Snow

_Moscow, February 14_ _th_ _1950_

Hunting dogs barked and yelped in the distance – following the running, crunching footsteps in the snow and the shot of a fresh kill. Russia watched as the men scrambled through dense forest, shouting and laughing to each other's crude jokes. Only hours ago, they had been stiff puppets in suits, politicians who always claimed to know better what was good for their nation, to instruct Russia on what must be done next. _More steel_. _More coal._ _More factories._ _More crops_ – _Now burn them._

But of the many decisions imposed on Russia, the one taken today intrigued him.

China stood over merely footsteps away, shoulders shivering and hands stuffed into his coat pockets as he watched the hunters disappear into the woods. They had been allies in the war, yes, but to be here together now as _comrades_ … It was a bond resembling partnership, friendship maybe, though Russia hardly considered himself qualified to know either.

'You're shaking, comrade,' Russia said, watching China turn his head – carefully, warily. 'Do the gunshots unsettle you?'

China's delicate brow rose, a small puff of breath billowing out into the frosty air. 'We've both had more than our fair share of them. Don't they sicken _you_?'

Russia swallowed. His mouth had gone a little dry, and this conversation had not turned out as friendly as he thought it would. 'The war has been over for a while, China. That's why we can shoot for fun now.'

China chuckled, his dark-eyed gaze shifting back to the forest. 'Only your sadistic kind would say something like that.'

'Sadistic?' Russia's brows pinched in hurt. 'We're comrades now. How can you say such a thing?'

China tensed, crossing his arms. 'Ah – well. You know. I meant it… not in a bad way. More like… kind of like…' China clacked his tongue and turned towards Russia. 'You know what? Forget it. I'm not sugar-coating my words for you. You _are_ sadistic, aru. And I don't trust for a second that this treaty of ours is going to last for long. Our nations are coming together out of convenience. You watch my back and I watch yours. Nothing more than that.'

Russia giggled, not sure if this was a joke or not. They were friends now, weren't they? 'China… What are you saying?'

'Don't misunderstand me. We're allies. But I won't stand for any toe-stepping, or debt-binding, or promise-breaking. I want us both to be clear on that.'

These were not the words of a friend, Russia realized, with sinking, gut wrenching disappointment. They were words of a businessman.

' _Da_ …' he croaked out, still wearing the smile, now threadbare and fading. ' _Da_ , I understand…'

China sighed, the silence after it long enough to hear the hunters returning back from their kill. 'Good,' he said, with finality. He shifted his balance, snow crushing beneath winter boots as he glanced up at Russia with hesitance. There was the slight pinch of those delicate brows, the pursing of his lips like he was worried, and Russia had to pretend to find something interesting about a nearby crow, just to escape that sympathetic look that made him feel like a pouting child.

' _Aiyah_ – d-don't do that.'

'Do what?'

'You're not allowed to make me feel guilty about setting down rules,' China snapped. 'They were perfectly reasonable.'

'I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty…'

'You were! Making a face like that.'

Russia braved a glance back at China, unable to help a tiny smile. 'What face?'

'Like you're about to cry. I've seen you do it before. I know these tricks.'

Russia stepped back. 'You haven't seen me cry before.'

'I have.'

' _Da_ , well – I've seen _you_ cry before.'

China scoffed. 'When?'

Russia parted his lips to blurt out, only to hesitate. No, that memory was private – too private to even speak of to China, though they both could remember it very clearly. Tears and bandages, bloodstains seeping through the back of China's shirt with fresh betrayal. Russia's hand on his shoulder – tentative, unsure, though his heart went out for China, who was then, just like him, truly alone.

China's delicate features softened. 'So you saw me like that once. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm the oldest, out of all of us.' His lips tugged up into a careful curve, eyes smouldering with arrogance. 'You're practically a child to me, aru.'

Russia furrowed his brows. 'Is that really how you see me?'

China hummed in agreement, his posture straighter and taller, like one of worshipped emperors and deities. Russia thought it was cute; he had seen this before in a growing America, in pre-war Germany, in Prussia before he fell. It was the mark of pride, and pride – _oh,_ it was just about the most beautiful sight when shattered.

China was perhaps not willing to be his friend. But that did not mean Russia could not make him his toy.

He took a step forward in the snow, the frost making a quiet groan beneath his boot, and smiled. 'I can make you think differently, _Kitai_.'

'Oh?'

'I… could make you afraid of me if I wanted to.'

China's gaze faltered, the proud smile fading for a moment, before picking itself back up again. 'Those are brave words.'

'I'm not the one who needs to be brave here,' Russia chuckled, taking another step forward and watching China take one step back. 'But is China willing to play with me?'

China scoffed, amusement in his eyes though his steps drew away from Russia. 'If only to put your money where your mouth is… You are only making empty threats, aru.'

'Then let me prove them to you.'

China bolted as soon as the words were out of Russia's mouth, running for the thickly wooded area of the forest. Russia followed, unable to help his own laughter at this game they were playing of cat and mouse. His boots slipped and skidded on ice, his heart pounding as he chased China further and further into the woods, until the forest was quiet, only disturbed by the pounding of their feet on the ground and the panting of their breaths.

Russia reached his hand out, close enough to brush against China's flailing ponytail, and then close enough to grab his collar. China turned his head to look behind, and Russia had to wonder, if he would see fear in those ink-dark eyes, if he would find dread.

China tripped over, feet slipping down a sharp icy slope in the ground. Russia grabbed him, only for the two of them to stumble off the slope, rolling down against the graze of icy flecks and frozen branches.

'Caught you –' Russia panted, hot puffs of breath against China's throat as he chuckled. China groaned and shifted beneath him, though Russia refused to let him get away that easily. He took hold of China's wrists, pinning them to the ground on either side of his head. Leaning in, Russia watched dark eyes watch him closely, breaths heaving in and out heavily through China's parted lips.

'Are you afraid of me now?' Russia asked.

'No.'

'Not even a little bit?'

'Not even.'

Russia furrowed his brows, taking in a deep inhale as he fidgeted with the delicate wrists in his hands. They were limp, passive – yet why was it that he felt like the caught one here? China was looking at him so strangely, dark depths in his eyes that he couldn't quite read. Was he still just a child to him? An annoyance? Or something to be pitied, pitied enough for China to have indulged him in this game to begin with, to lend this measly moment of closeness, of intimacy Russia could only wish for.

A slender wrist slipped out of Russia's grip, palm pressing against his chest.

'Do you feel that?' China asked quietly. His palm pressed harder against Russia's chest, against where his heart was starting to beat faster, louder. The force was hard enough to bruise, to push Russia away. 'A few years ago, it took all my strength just to lift my arms up. I was so weak, from these wars… I thought I was going to disappear.'

Russia glanced down at the hand firmly pressed up against him, wanting to revel in the warmth of the touch, though it was aching, though it was pushing him away. 'A lot of us did –'

China threw him off, Russia's back thudding against the cold ground.

'I'm not going to let it get to that again,' China said, leaning over him. 'I'll regain my strength. And when I do, I won't need anyone. Not America, not England or France. Not even you. I'd like you to remember that.'

Russia parted his lips to speak, to say something though he didn't know what. China got up and left before he could muster up words, leaving hurried footprints in the snow. Russia turned his head to watch China's figure disappear in the forest, his cheek stinging against the snow.

He was born here, in the snow and beneath frosted branches of dead trees. Always cold and always truly alone. So when he felt the snow melt against his cheek in memory of that firm, gentle touch – of China's desperate pride – he thought that perhaps for once, this would change.


	3. April 3rd 1951: Scars

_Seoul, April 3_ _rd_ _1951_

China had refused to enter the medical tent. He was not injured – at least, he wouldn't be if they let him just have a few moments of rest. _It will heal, it will heal_ , he had told Russia, that towering ghost of a man who should not have even been here to begin with.

But Russia wouldn't have any of it.

'Don't waste the medical supplies on me,' China said, flinching when the cold alcohol-drenched cotton pad touched his wound. Russia pressed on the wound, ignoring China's muttered protest.

'They are mine to give. I'll do with them as I please.'

China huffed out, still panting from the close call out on the battlefield. Outside, he could hear the pained cries of his people, the hurried orders of doctors – more Russians than of his own. The shadows flitted past the tent, but in here it was quiet enough to hear his own pounding heart. He watched the cotton pads come away drenched with blood each time.

'It will heal,' China said, holding back the nausea as pain throbbed in his shoulder. 'And I don't mean in weeks, or months. I only need a few hours, you know that –'

'But the bullet will still be inside…' Russia pulled close a medical tray, on it the shining scalpels and knives that made China want to recoil. 'And that wouldn't be any good, _da_?'

'I'll live,' China snapped back. He tensed when Russia picked up the pliers. ' _Aiyah_ … Give me that. I'll take care of it myself –'

Russia pulled the pliers away, a gravely look on his face. 'Yao.'

'What?'

'It will be much less unpleasant if I do it.'

China scoffed, now more annoyed than he was afraid. He reached out for the pliers. 'That's not true. Give me that –'

'You'll pass out before you can get the bullet out.'

He grabbed the pliers out of Russia's hands. 'I can do it myself just fine! You're such a sadist, you know that?'

' _Da_ , you've told me before…'

'I'll take the bullet out myself and show it to you, since you're so eager to make me bleed some more.'

A surprised chuckle escaped Russia's lips. 'You know that's not what I want!' Russia took hold of China's pale hand, fingertips blackened with gunpowder and dirt. He wrapped his warm hands tighter around China's and pressed his lips to them, in that way that was too affectionate for China's liking, too sweet and too adoring to be real. 'I just don't want you to have that horrible bullet stuck inside you forever.'

China swallowed, feeling Russia's chapped lips brush against his knuckles. 'Why does it matter to you anyway?'

A small smile graced Russia's lips, his eyes gazing up at China with a spark of fondness in them. A familiar spark which China had seen before, in those humid spring and summer nights the two of them had spent together, in quiet intimacy when they could only hear each other's breaths and Russia had parted his lips to say –

'I… '

'Don't you dare say it,' China snapped.

Russia pursed his lips, pressing them harder to China's hand as if in rebellion. 'Then I'll show it.'

'I think I'd rather you take the bullet out and let me rest.'

'Would that prove my feelings to you?'

'Sure. Why not.' China sighed, handing the pliers back. 'Just – make it quick.'

Russia sat up on the bed, taking the pliers and placing one hand on China's shoulder to hold him still. He glanced up at China, in question.

'Go ahead,' China said hurriedly, his pulse quickening. Russia nodded and pierced the pliers into the wound, eliciting a sharp cry from China. He grabbed the fabric of his worn-out trousers, gritting his teeth as the pliers dug deep into his flesh, the sting of fresh blood oozing down his arm. Russia murmured, in foreign words China could only catch the meaning of through his tone, hushed and soft though it didn't do much to ease the searing agony in his shoulder.

'Got it,' Russia said as the pliers clinched, pulling out to drag a bullet through flesh. China exhaled sharply in relief, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he felt the pain ebb away, if only by the slightest.

'See?' He panted as Russia cleaned up the bloodstains and wrapped up the wound. 'I didn't pass out.'

'I know. You were very brave.'

'Don't patronize me.'

Russia chuckled, pulling the gauze taut around China's shoulder, binding the wound. He tied it off, his hands lingering as they pulled away from China's chest, in that quietness China was starting to find more unbearable than the pain in his shoulder.

'You should get back out there,' China said, making as if to get off the bed. 'Your comrades are waiting out there for you. Your 'secret' soldiers.'

Russia frowned. 'They're comrades all the same.'

'Yes, well…' China paused, glancing up at Russia – wearing that uniform of the Chinese military, in the disguise neither of them had spoken about until now. 'Your people are using our marks on their jets. Staying far from the frontlines. Keeping from sending people on the ground. You'd think you were ashamed to be on our side.'

Russia's gaze wavered. 'You know it's more complicated than that.'

'I know that we're meant to be allies.' China stood up, his balance unsteady. Russia grabbed his hand, his hold tight, desperate.

'Yao –'

'And I'm starting to think maybe we shouldn't be using names, either.'

Russia's expression softened, the slight furrow of hurt in his brows. 'What do you mean, not use names? We're –'

'Nations. We're allied nations – for now.'

'Don't say things like that…'

China freed his hand from Russia's. 'It will be less unpleasant this way.'

'That's… not true…'

China buttoned up his military shirt, worried about the aching feeling in his chest, the trembling of his lips that might give this ugly feeling away. 'Stay safe out there, Russia,' he said curtly, before leaving the medical tent.

And as he stepped back out onto the battlefield, the front that Russia was not allowed to be spotted on – should America see, should the entire world know that they were on the same side – he felt the slightest of itches on his wound, the familiar, crawling feeling of skin and muscle mending itself back together again. The wound closed itself up and the gun in his hands fired like nothing had happened, but he knew that the wound in his shoulder could never truly go away. The bullet was gone, but the scar would remain.

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 **A/N: For those interested in the historical context of this chapter, this note is for you. I should also probably add that I only have a very basic understanding of these events, so apologies for any inaccuracies.**

 **Korea was essentially (well, debateably) a Cold War battleground between communism and capitalist influences. To sort of crudely simplify things, North Korea = under Russia's influence, South Korea = under America's influence. There was a civil war, in which the North had begun to invade the South. America and other UN countries got involved and pushed back the North Korean forces (almost all the way up to the Chinese-Korean border), and then things got messy...**

 **China started fighting on the North Korean side to push American forces back. It was expected, at that time, that Russia would support them. Russia, however, couldn't help China without risking provoking an outright war with UN countries, including America. So, Russia concealed its involvement. It did mean, however, that aid was limited. And on top of that, China was indebted to Russia in order to pay back for the medical aid provided, weapons, etc.**

 **Not very happy times for Sino-Soviet relations.**

 **Anyways - thank you for reading this chapter! And a big thank you to those who left such lovely reviews! It's great to see that you guys are enjoying this so far. There's plenty more of RoChu angst/cold war feels to come...**


	4. July 30th 1950: Beauty

_Beijing, July 30_ _th_ _1950_

Russia kissed at where he had peeled away the fabric of China's shirt, shivering at the sound of whispering fabric as it slipped off pale shoulders, wanting to soak up every touch and every delicate hitch of breath. But China was impatient; already he was tugging at Russia's belt buckle, shifting and fidgeting beneath him.

'You're in a hurry…'

'You're taking too long,' China said, his voice thick with want. He undid the buttons of Russia's shirt with nimble fingers, shedding the fabric off and leaving him suddenly cold. A gentle frown placed itself on China's delicate features. 'You always take so long.'

'Because I want to enjoy this for as long as possible,' Russia said, flinching and laughing when fingers tickled against his lower stomach in an attempt to remove the rest of his clothing. 'Yao… Yao, no! At this rate we'll be finished in a few minutes...'

'Not enough for you?'

'No…' Russia drawled out, pressing his smile to China's palm and kissing it. China scoffed, his chest rising and falling in slow resignation. Russia chuckled and leaned in, lowering his lips to China's throat and pressing soft bites into it, nipping at flushed skin. The hitch of China's breath brushed against his ear, hips eagerly tilting up to rub against his. Russia returned the favour, rolling his hips and hearing a moan buried deep in China's throat.

'Move,' China groaned, his hands grasping Russia's sleeve and pulling him to the side. Russia parted his lips in question, about to ask when China rolled him over and straddled him, the movement as effortless – if not more – as it had been that snowy February day.

Lips seized his, firm as they smoothed over and nipped, warm hands slowly dragging over Russia's bare chest and throat. A shiver of pleasure ran through him, his lips parting and his hands running over China's thighs, China's waist and back – China's scar, now nothing more than a gentle ridge. Russia only briefly caressed there, knowing the occasional pain it gave China despite its healing. He moved on and reached for China's ponytail, tugging it loose so that a dark curtain of hair cascaded over, running his fingers through it to earn a longing murmur from China.

Their lips broke away from each other, panting breaths shared between them as China's half-lidded gaze lingered on Russia. This was when China was at his most beautiful; vulnerable and open to Russia, his deep golden irises glazed over with an adoration warmer than sunlight, his lips parted, as if tender words were ready to spill out. Only China said nothing, silently leaning back in to place gentle kisses on Russia's forehead, his cheeks and jawline, cupping his hands around Russia's face with a touch soft enough to soothe bruises.

They were so close, so entwined with each other like this in the past few months that it had started to hurt when they weren't together. It had been a new kind of pain for Russia. It wasn't of cruelty or hatred, it didn't leave bloodied marks. It was trapped, aching deep inside his chest as if something was dying to burst out. Words perhaps – these strange frivolous words he had once thought useless.

'Is something wrong?'

China's eyes were locked with his, deep and dark and searching. Russia swallowed, his heart beating madly. He could say it. He _should_ say it. Otherwise, his chest might crumble from the inside. Otherwise, China will still think he's on his own, that the only love he had left was now etched into his back. But that wasn't true. It wasn't, because Russia was here, because Russia would _always_ be here, because Russia would never dream of betraying China.

He reached his hand up, fingers tentatively brushing against China's brow, down across sculpted cheekbone and soft jawline. ' _Ya lyublyu tebya_ ,' Russia whispered, like it was a secret, like it was _their_ secret. 'Do you know what that means, Yao?' Russia's breath trembled as he smiled, his pulse fluttering. 'It means 'I love you'…'

China's hold on him softened, his expression unreadable as he pulled away slightly. At first, Russia had thought it to be confusion – that delicate furrow of the brows, the pursing of lips. But then a smile swept across China's face, quick like a mask, and Russia wasn't so sure anymore.

'You're too sweet, aru,' China chuckled, ruffling Russia's hair. 'You become so tame with affection, you know that?'

Russia smiled back weakly, his eyelids lowering closed when China pressed their foreheads together and crooned in foreign words. He couldn't say for certain if among those words was the sentiment he was looking for. He could only hope.

He caught China's lips in his, the ache of those words still trapped as if they had never been uttered to begin with. But perhaps the beauty of China's tenderness, the warmth of his hands… perhaps it was more than anything Russia could ever ask for.


	5. March 27th 1969: Laughter

**A/N: So - this is something a *little* more lighthearted for RoChu Week. Because the prompt is laughter, and I ain't sadistic enough to make them suffer all the way through RoChu Week. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Beijing, March 27_ _th_ _1969_

Russia rapped his gloved hand on the door, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited for a response. He knocked on the door again, louder, his chest bristling with hope as he heard gentle footsteps approach. The door creaked open by the slightest, China's dark eyes peering out.

'What are you doing here?'

Russia placed his hand to his chest, not sure if he found China's annoyance amusing or hurtful. 'Comrades can't visit each other?'

China scoffed. 'They're not supposed to try to bomb each other, I know that for sure.'

'You know those are only rumours!' Russia chuckled. 'My boss would never plan to do such a terrible thing.'

China's brow raised. 'So then you're just… stopping by for a friendly visit.'

'Of course.'

China clacked his tongue. 'Lies. You're visiting out of pity! I know you. Your boss has something bad in mind and you're trying to make up for it.'

Russia paused, mumbling for an excuse. China had been, as always, quick to read him.

'And anyway,' China continued. 'My boss made it clear that we are not to trust you. So go before your trail of misfortune catches up to my house.'

'Don't be so cruel!' Russia caught his hand in the door as it began to shut. 'Yao!'

China faltered, making a pained expression. 'Do you have to keep calling me that?'

'Yao, come outside with me.'

'No.'

'Let's go eat somewhere. Or ice skate! I passed by an ice rink on the way here –'

'No, stop it!' China snapped. 'I'm not leaving my house. I'm not going out to eat sub-standard food. And I'm not going ice-skating with you.'

Russia parted his lips to speak –

'How many times do I have to refuse, aru?'

Russia shut his mouth closed, gently leaning his forehead against the door and exhaling deeply, his eyes still fixed on China.

'What?'

'Yao…' Russia dragged out, as childishly and sweetly as possible. 'I missed you this whole time. It's been eight years and I wanted to see you again. Is that such a bad thing?'

He knew it worked – the cute voice and the shameless sentiments. On China, of all people, it worked _well_. He could see the door tremble slightly from China's hesitance, fingers rapping indecisively on its surface. China let out a small sigh of resignation.

'Fine. Let's go.'

'Really?'

'But only for today. No staying over –'

Russia grabbed China's hands, cupping them up against his chest. 'I'm so glad!'

' _Aiyah_ –' China gently pulled his hands away. 'Let me finish –'

'Ah!' Russia pulled him out from the doorway. 'Ice skating! Have you ever ice-skated before?'

'Of course I have,' China scoffed, stumbling out into the cold with a frown. He carefully stepped back into the warmth of his home, pursing his lips as he considered Russia. 'Just – wait out here while I get my coat…' he grumbled, the door half-closing. Russia hummed to himself, rocking on his heels again as he waited, this time with giddiness in his chest.

.

China's skates only barely approached the ice, toeing on the barrier between the ice rink and the ground outside of it.

'Come on, Yao. The ice won't bite.'

China looked up at Russia, frowning. 'Don't patronize me.'

Russia chuckled at the familiarity of that tone, words which rang with strange fondness for the time when he had pulled a bullet out of China's shoulder. He reached his hands out, wondering if China would show him that same trust again.

China ignored him, instead taking a defiant step forward. His skate stabbed into the ice, shaky. He set the other foot, wobbling, slipping and falling backwards onto the ice.

'Yao –' Russia burst out laughing, unable to help himself as he skated forward and reached out to China. 'Yao, you silly fool. Take my hand –'

' _Aiyah_!' China swatted his hand away, cheeks growing pink. 'I'll get up on my own.'

'You should have told me you didn't know how to skate. I can teach you –'

'No one is teaching _me_ anything.' China grabbed the rail, his balance wavering as he stood up. 'I can figure this out myself.' He shuffled along the ice, his eyes glued to his own skates. One foot shakily sliding forward, the other clumsily following. Another slide forward, a slip – China grabbing onto the rail tightly with a shaky breath. It was almost too endearing of a sight to bear.

'Yao.'

'What?' China glanced up, a bite in his voice.

'Can I show you?' Russia asked. China pursed his lips and muttered out a resigned 'fine'. Russia reached his hands out. 'Give me your hands.'

China's eyes widened. 'No!'

'It's only so I can show you,' Russia said. 'You'll learn faster, I promise!'

China narrowed his eyes and placed one hand in Russia's.

'And the other one.'

'I need the other one for balance.'

'You'll have me for balance.'

China exhaled out in irritation, hesitating before letting go of the rail. He quickly grabbed Russia's hand, feet clumsily slipping and scratching at the ice. Russia laughed and caught him by the shoulders.

'You need to relax.'

'I am relaxed!'

'And bend your knees a little bit.'

'Why?'

'Just do it. It helps.'

China muttered in irritation, words Russia had not been paying attention to as he felt warm palms place themselves in his. It was as if he had only been holding them yesterday, these delicate hands which fit so perfectly into his. He guided China through the ice rink, skating backwards and hearing a panicked _wait-wait-wait-not yet!_ as China's grip on him tightened.

'See, it's not so bad,' Russia said once they were in the centre of the ice rink, where no rail could save China. 'It's fun, _da_?'

'Don't you dare let go.'

'As you wish!'

China sighed, his feet now skating at a rhythm, smoothly gliding in sync with Russia's. He refused to look up, brows furrowed in concentration as if his feet might start doing things with a mind of their own.

'You're doing good,' Russia said, earning a flustered glance from China.

' _Aiyah_ … You can… You can actually let go now.'

'Are you _sure_?' Russia chuckled.

'Y-Yes,' China snapped, though he was still holding on tightly. 'You don't need to help me anymore. I've got this now.'

Russia nodded, still holding up his smile though it threatened to falter as he gently pulled his hands away from China. China wavered for balance, regaining it quickly with a proud, beaming smile.

'See that, Russia? Soon enough, I'll be able to skate better than you!'

Russia hummed, watching to see how long that smile would last, how many seconds until it flickered and faded away like any other rare smile he had seen on China's face. How long had it been, since China had smiled like that at him? Eight years? No, longer than that. Ten, maybe twenty. For a nation it was nothing, but for a warm curve of the lips like that it could have felt like centuries…

China hesitated, the smile faltering. There, it had already begun to disappear.

'Behind you –'

Russia knocked into the wall of the ice-rink, stumbling down against the ice with a bruising fall. A surprised laugh burst out, not from Russia's own embarrassment, but from China, who was standing over him with a hand over his mouth.

'Look at you,' China laughed, his face flushed. 'Clumsy Vanya…'

Russia blinked, feeling the sting of a bruise on his thigh but not really caring for it. He was unable to help his own smile as it tugged on his lips, soft laughter bubbling out of him – not so much for his fall, or his idiocy to skate into the wall, but for the endearing laughter China was making. More so a cackle than a giggle, not all that conventionally attractive or dignified, and ridiculous enough for China to cover his mouth up in embarrassment. Yet Russia couldn't help but marvel at how sweet this sight was, how sad it was that in all his life this was the first time he had ever seen China laugh like that.

'I'm sorry…' China wiped away tears, choking on his own restrained laughs. He reached a hand out to Russia, his smile softening. 'Come on. Let's go get some ice-cream. My treat as host.'

Russia reached out and grabbed onto China's hand, but he did not stand up. He tugged gently, pulling until China knelt down beside him.

'What's wrong?' China asked, still catching his breath and smearing away tears from his cheeks. 'Are you hurt?'

Russia shook his head, drawing China's hand closer to his chest with a fond smile. China's smile sobered, his dark eyes blinking in confusion.

'What is it?'

'Please laugh like that more often…'

China darted his gaze away, though the ghost of his smile still lingered. ' _Aiyah…_ '

'I'll keep tripping over and falling if it'll make you laugh again. And call me 'Vanya'…'

'Don't be foolish. Stay on your feet.'

'Only if Yao promises to laugh like that once more.'

China sighed and levelled his gaze with Russia. 'Fine. One day.'

'One day…?'

'Non-negotiable. Now get up,' China said, though he stayed put exactly where he was. He pursed his lips in embarrassment. 'Because I don't think I can.'


	6. February 28th 1950: Rain

_Moscow, February 28_ _th_ _1950_

Russia's grip was warm as it yanked China out into the pouring rain.

'Run!' Russia laughed as the rain pelted them, the smile infectious as it spread to China's lips. He pulled the back of his suitcoat over his head, sprinting ahead of Russia down the glistening street to hear drawled protests for him to not run ' _that_ fast', their drunken giggles echoing out in the cold and empty night.

They both had their fair share of alcohol that evening – for Russia it had been nearly a bottle, and for China, no more than a few glasses. But it was enough to set them both giggling about nothing in particular in that bar, earning curious glances and remarks when China had attempted to sing 'Katyusha' in his heavily-accented Russian. He hadn't been thinking of what others thought, at that time. He had only thinking about the way Russia's eyes brightened in amusement, the flustered smile from hearing his language in China's voice.

Unlocking his hotel room door with trembling jittery hands, he felt Russia hovering over him, whispering some incoherent joke into his ear and tickling with his vodka-laced breaths. Everything but Russia felt cold to him. The icy rain, the streets, the dry and dull words of his advisors earlier this day – everything had sent China wanting to curl up and disappear. But Russia was warmth; he was laughter and light touches, tender words and softly-spoken stories.

China stripped off his suit jacket and flopped down onto the bed, drowsy enough to shut his eyes and fall asleep as he was, had it not been for the accompanying weight of Russia next to him, shoulder pressed against shoulder.

' _Aiyah_ …' China sighed and propped himself up onto his elbows. 'You'll get the bed wet.'

'And you won't?'

'It's my bed, aru. Get off.'

Russia hummed, rolling over to his side. ' _Nyet_.'

'Don't _nyet_ me.'

Ivan's eyes brightened, his smile tugging into something more mischievous as he inched closer. 'And if I do?'

'You can say goodbye to our treaty.'

'That easily?' Russia's arm snaked over China's chest, fabric hushing with the friction.

'Y-Yes, that easily –' China's breath shook, almost flinching when Russia's arm curled around his waist. 'What do you think you're doing?'

Russia pulled him closer, rolling China over to his side so that they were lying face to face. China's heart stuttered in its pulse, his mouth dry as he spoke.

'Russia… you're drunk.'

Russia bumped his nose against China's, a soft chuckle flourishing on his lips. 'No… I'm thinking very clearly, if that's what you're questioning.'

China's breath wavered as he was dragged closer. From here, this close, he could see the faint pink flush on Russia's skin, the tiny, snow dusted freckles on his nose and cheeks that China had not noticed until now, the delicate pale lashes and the gentle shape of Russia's eyes. It was a softness he hadn't really seen before. Where had the childishly cruel Russia gone? Where was the menacing pipe and air of dread? China couldn't decide if this Russia was real or not; if the gentle touch was nothing more than temporary kindness, if sweetly spoken words were merely there to draw him in for something else.

Even so, he couldn't quite stop thinking about touching him back, about burying himself in the crook of Russia's pale throat and kissing it.

'Maybe I'm the one not thinking clearly…' China said, his voice thick with the drowsiness of the drink and the rousing heat of their embrace. Russia shook his head gently, his palm smoothing up China's back with solid warmth.

'It's nice that it's just us, isn't it?' Russia said, his voice laced with honey, like this was precious, like it meant something though they had only been drunken fools a few minutes ago. 'Don't you want to keep it that way?'

China swallowed, a shiver of anticipation as Russia's hand travelled up to the nape of his neck, fingers teasing their way beneath his collar. Through a haze, he struggled to recall his prideful reservations about the treaty on that snowy day, the warnings of his advisors and the apprehension of things to come. But he could only feel that one solid hand caressing him, could only see the adoring affection in Russia's eyes. China's skin was cold and wet from the rain, quivering and begging to be touched a little more, squeezed until bruised, until China was sick of embraces.

 _(I won't need anyone)_

The voice of apprehension was drowned out by the hush of the rain outside, their lips meeting softly, tenderly until they grew firmer, hungrily as Russia's hands dragged across China's back and pulled him in closer. Their legs and arms entwined and tangled around each other, incredible warmth where they clung to each other, and trembling cold where they weren't.

'Please…'

He couldn't quite remember which one of them had begged for it, who had tugged away the first piece of soaked clothing from skin. He was drowning in Ivan's heavy breaths, warm and silken against his throat, suffocating in the exhilarating thrill of skin on skin and the light bruises of desperate kisses. Tensing, his body clung onto Russia's with each lingering, blissful touch, murmuring for more until their panting breaths was all he could hear.

Russia's head rested against his chest, his sigh tickling against China's skin. China's eyelids felt heavy, still too drunk and still too lost in pleasure to object to Russia's crushing weight on him. What was it that had held him back before, he wondered… Why was he so hesitant at the thought of growing closer to Russia before now? All those worries and all of those convictions seemed so far away now, pointless to even consider…

'China…' Russia drowsily lifted his head up, chin pressing against the centre of China's chest. He reached his hand up to toy with a lock of China's hair, smoothing it between his fingers. 'What's your name? Your real one…'

'My real one?'

'The one you call yourself. When no one is around and you're just a person.'

 _Just a person_ – the idea was laughable, at best. They had always been treated like national monuments; to be revered and worshipped when it suited people, and to be taken apart and rebuilt when it suited them no longer. But China couldn't bring himself to say this to Russia, that a name was worthless to beings like them, who were inseparable from the nations they embodied. So he parted his lips and spoke a name that hadn't been uttered since he was only a weak child.

'Wang Yao.'

Russia's curious eyes softened, the glow of a smile on his lips. 'Yao…' he said softly, like the rain pattering against the window. His fingers drew across the angle of China's jaw, the touch tender. 'Can I call you that?'

China placed his hand on Russia's, holding it still. This was a mistake, wasn't it, to have spoken that name, to have let themselves get this close. He couldn't see admiration in Russia's eyes, nor hear fondness in his voice; because he wouldn't allow himself to. He wouldn't, and yet –

'Yes,' China said, his voice barely a whisper. Russia smiled, leaning forward to kiss him. China returned the kiss, shutting his eyes and refusing to part his lips from Russia, refusing to think on what kind of future might be waiting for them. Russia's affection rained on him endlessly, hopelessly, and China could only find in his heart the desire to drown in it.


	7. February 12th 2002: Nostalgia

_Beijing, February 12_ _th_ _2002_

China sighed as he rested back against the park bench, watching the cold, empty night sky. The crackling red and gold bursts of fireworks in the sky had long since faded away, leaving behind only wispy trails of dust in their wake, settling down like gunpowder smoke in the battlefield. The New Year had begun, with promises of prosperity and fortune. But really, China had been playing this game of life long enough. Too long, for him to have worn his optimism down to realism, and his fervent energy into mere resilience.

China would have been more than content to simply soak up this lonely view, to count the hours and dutifully wait for visits from Hong Kong and Macau (perhaps that problem child Taiwan if he was lucky) – had a hand not so rudely nudged at him.

' _Aiyah_ –' China jolted and snapped his gaze to Russia beside him, beaming like a child on Christmas Eve. 'Oh… It's you.'

'Of course it's me,' Russia chuckled, his smile softening. 'I came to wish you a happy new year.'

The red lanterns hanging off the tree branches swayed in the icy breeze, hushing along the chirps of the night crickets. China parted his lips to reply, though he wasn't sure how friendly he was meant to be, how diplomatic, how cold or how warm. Their countries and leaders had long since repaired relations since the fall of the Iron Curtain, but China himself was still treading carefully, still not quite able to plaster on the fake smile and pretend all was good once again.

'That's… considerate of you,' China said, smiling. Gently, cautiously – not fully, should Russia get the wrong idea.

Russia's brows raised, having caught that diplomatic smile, the measured words behind it. He gave back a smile in return – breathy, boyishly charming in a way only he could get away with – and glanced down in embarrassment.

'Has… enough time passed yet?' Russia asked, almost whispered as his hands fidgeted in his lap. 'Is fifty years enough?'

'Enough for what?'

Russia leaned back in his seat and sighed, diverting his eyes to the distant lights of a celebrating city. 'It's okay. Never mind what I said. I was only being foolish…'

Guilt pinched at China's chest. He had asked, but really, he had known full well what Russia was talking about. A honeyed apology after reckless betrayal, a treaty declaring friendship once again… It was more than what China had gotten from any other nation-inflicted wound. But it couldn't be enough – it _shouldn't_ be enough.

In the empty silence, Russia had begun to hum a gentle tune, familiar and nostalgic in its memory. China turned his head to Russia, furrowing his brows.

'Where have I heard that before?'

A fond smile tugged at Russia's lips. 'You don't remember?'

'Tell me.'

' _Rastsvetali yabloni i grushi…_ ' Russia paused, searching China's face for recognition. 'No?'

' _Aiyah_ …'

'You really don't remember?'

'No, I remember.' China sighed out, unable to help the embarrassing memory from colouring his face pink. 'I just wish you didn't.'

'Sing it again for me,' Russia said, leaning closer. 'With the accent and everything!'

'No!'

'But it was so cute.'

China scoffed. 'Don't even try to flatter me into this. I'm not starting the year singing one of your songs.'

'Please…?' Russia rested his chin on China's shoulder, too close, too familiar and comfortable like this. 'Yao, sing it for me. I'll join you. I'll sing with you if it makes you feel better.'

China huffed out, glancing away, shifting in his seat in his own effort to pull away from Russia. He tensed when he felt Russia's warm breathy smile tickle his throat.

'Yao…'

He looked toward Russia by the slightest turn of his head, a shiver running through him at the sound of his own name, softly spoken like rain, like he was hearing it in Russia's breath for the first time all over again.

China swallowed, feeling Russia's hand just barely touching his arm, merely brushing against it like they were back in political meetings and public scrutiny, pining beneath masks of diplomacy.

'What is it?' he asked, softly in fear he would shatter the moment with his voice, disturb the vulnerable gaze that was Russia's, the eyes so intimately locked onto his that he almost thought he could drown in them.

'We might not be comrades anymore…' Russia said, only needing to whisper to be heard. 'But at least we're friends now, right?'

China faltered to speak, though he wasn't sure why that was. Friends – that was what it had all boiled down to; the battles, the scars, the frozen kisses and the desperate warmth of their embraces, the trust that was broken and melded again, shattered and twisted and put back together. They had shared human names, human wants, more than borders and more than alliances and treaties.

 _(Yao is the one who loves me most)_

China caught the lump in his throat, this tiny hurt. He wasn't sure, really, if it was love. But he knew it was more than comradery and friendship, he knew it was something far more delicate and sacred than that. _Something_ , although China wasn't sure what.

He reached his hand out – tentatively, _delicately_ like the way Russia had always spoken those three shamelessly adoring words. He took hold of his cold, frozen hand and squeezed it, having missed it, having longed for it throughout all the empty years in spite of the reminding scar on his shoulder.

Russia shifted slightly, turning his head towards China in question, his nose bumping against China's cheek. Without saying anything, without even hearing that all-too-familiar laughter, China knew he was smiling.

'What?' China asked eventually, unable to stand the strange silence.

'Yao forgives me…'

''Forgive' is a strong word.'

'What would you call it then?'

China sighed, trying to ignore how his pulse was fluttering with every stroke of Russia's nose against his cheek, nuzzling lower towards his throat. 'Begrudgingly… moving forward.'

'Towards me?'

China flinched and did his best to withhold an unwanted smile, tickled by the softly spoken words on his skin. 'Towards you.'

Russia's lips pressed to his throat, one chaste kiss followed by another, travelling up until they reached China's lips. China closed his eyes, tasting Russia the same way he did on that miserably rainy night, once again soaking up his affection and wanting to drown in it.

Russia pulled away by the slightest, cradling China's face in his hands and gazing like fervent words were ready to spill from his lips. China couldn't help but laugh a little.

'I'm still not singing 'Katyusha', if that's what you want to ask.'

Russia furrowed his brows. 'You didn't even give me a chance to ask. I was going to do it so nicely…'

China hummed indifferently, feeling the warmth of his own smile as he watched Russia's gaze flicker with childish disappointment.

'Non-negotiable?' Russia asked.

China sighed, feigning reluctance. 'We'll talk about it.'

Russia's lips tugged up into a familiar gentle curve, a chuckle bubbling out of him as he pressed their foreheads together, murmuring in tender Russian words – words which, China had once felt terrified by. But perhaps one day, when the new memories took over the old, when phantom pains stung less and doubt fully healed itself back into trust, he would return that sentiment in his own words.


End file.
